


Korrigan : Vengeance or Spite

by GrumpkinVicky



Series: The Korrigan [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Amputation, Anger, Complete AU, Emotional Roller Coaster, Gen, Hate, MCiT, Mythology - Freeform, Prompt Fic, Vengeance Demon(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-30 21:58:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20104261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpkinVicky/pseuds/GrumpkinVicky
Summary: Also known as the Five times Korrigan crossed paths with companions for the first time, and one time she did not.Aka Korrigan the Spirit of Spiteful Vengeance.MCIT 2019 week prompt fic for Spirit Sunday. The version of Korrigan where she goes off plan, and doesn't make it out of the Fade as she was supposed to.Different timeline Korrigan *winks*





	Korrigan : Vengeance or Spite

If you ask Korrigan what spirit she most embodied, she wouldn’t answer. She is too wrapped up in her thoughts and plans of revenge and anger to waste time on petty questions that bare no meaning on her being. She is Korrigan, no more, and now no longer, no less. 

If you ask a fade expert for instance, they might suggest that she embodies Vengeance or Spite depending on her current frame of mind. Both are apt descriptors, for she is most assuredly disposed to ill will and hatred, seeking to irritate, thwart, vex and injure those she deems to have acted against her or those she believes to be hers. And whilst she bears malice, it would be unwise to forget that she has reason, she is many ways a victim to a crime that her villain does not even consider her to be a bystander to.

And this crime that she keeps at the very core of her centre has become everything to her. 

So if you were to ask Korrigan what she embodies the most, she will ignore to focus on what is most important to Korrigan, with the single minded doggedness that saw the end of Midgard, the coming of Ragnarok and the end of those she calls Betrayers. 

Korrigan had found herself too distracted by her ever present fury as Frey had given her the final instructions before pushing her through the smouldering portal that would take her far from the nine realms, to the world that Frey was gambling on to save the Tyrants that had killed her beloved Creator. She had paid little attention to anything but the singular goal of not running her blade down his perfect face, the one he had presented as he had wooed her into acceptance of this heinous plan. And so it was his fault that she didn’t protect the one part of her that had become so fragile with the weakening of the world. 

She had been pushed, he had pushed her, that cowardly bastard spawn had dared to push her, Korrigan, through the portal into the gaping abyss that lay at the other side, far beyond the reach of her curse, her precious Ragnarok. And he pushed her, and had closed that stinking god cursed portal before she could launch herself back through and slice his fingers off in punishment for the temerity of the fiend. The treacherous, cowardly bastard. With the last beat of her heart, the last breath in her body, and the last will in her soul she would not let them squirm out of their righteous punishment that she had crafted so painstakingly to match the crime that they had committed. 

His wonderful plan that he had spent a year coaxing her into agreement with, a year of having his stench in her place, having his taint infect the last refuge she had, his plan to steal like a common thief, power from a being that would be wounded and weak. The brave and valiant Gods, like vultures pecking at the weak, how she despised them. How dare he try and use her, use her to escape, to avoid her millenias of planning and crafting, to just steal away another's power, and frolic off into the sunset with his kin. 

Her wings were lost, her precious wings that had survived so much, for so long, gone and all for being pushed, too delicate, too fragile after being starved of real power for so long. The crushing, burning void tearing them from her, and it was all his fault, this agony, this injustice. She despised him, she loathed him, she detested him and them. It was wrong, wrong that she was stumbling, unbalanced by the loss of limb, and for the want of a moment, only the frothing resentment keeping her heading forward to the faint thrum of power, a vindictive ball of spite, travelling forward to the place that he sent her to act so poorly in. Where he had promised her great power for actions befitting a dastard.

Promised her, she could spit at the memory of his promises, that he had painted at her feet, sticky with tainted honey. She lost track of everything but her rage, seething, drifting, cursing as the agony and injustice became her focus, Him, Frey, her wings, her poor precious wings. But then, a change in the void, a ripple of pure raw power, power she hadn’t tasted since the Long Sleep of the last True King, the end of the only Golden Age that the bastard spawn of the gods had wrought.

She sizzled with it, the power that was there for the taking, bathing in its siren call, feeding like a glutton until she was fit to bursting, it was enough to make her weep, the way she had only ever experienced for a short while, a short fleeting moment in the entire history of Creation. She rejoiced, her past woes forgotten, as the realm reacted to her, the flat landscape that had been so dull and void, now the ragged mountains and roaring river of the Creation, of her Creation. It filled with the remnants of a past that only she remembered and mourned, creatures that had not survived the great Betrayal, the nains that scurried attending the Great Silhouette of her Creator. And she did weep once more, taking her place as she once had, gazing at him as she once had.

Moments would pass, she nurtured her area, protecting it from stray beings who would dare cross into her territory, the curious little shadelike creatures that were drawn seemingly to the huge figure of the being that had given her life, that she didn’t dare approach. She had learnt her lesson with Audumla, when she had sought it out for the nourishment she had once supped on, and it had flickered away like a wisp light in a fen. How dare those things despoil his memory with their baseness, His memory, His being, this was all His fault. And so she raged, caught once more in the spiral of sorrow and spite, feeding on each other as she captured and devoured the intruders as they came. 

Until the cycle broke, a wave of something rippled through this realm of power that reminded her of what Frey had sent her through to do, and so, for the first time she looked forward. And she laughed.

He had sent her too soon.

#### Solas

The first time she met Solas, he called to her, his anger singing through the realm, alighting her veins with its familiarity, echoing hatred through the power that she drenches herself in, calling to her as Morgan did the foolish men of her home that had been. Luring her from her carefully protected territory, his rage, his vengeance as sweet as the heather honey, dragging her spinning into his dreams. This strange, old creature that felt so achingly familiar that she almost weeps, Loki, the Redeemer, here where the others aren’t. Her Loki, her sweet kin, he who had been so integral to her schemes, who had played so gently with those cast aside with the brutal changing of the guard. 

She can’t help but press against him, as eager as the puppy he had whelped, feeding on his anger, rolling in his scent, lost in the purity of his presence that she is unable to communicate in anything but the swell of her overwhelmed emotions, as she keeps him company whilst he slumbers, so slow to rouse from this deep sleep. Her Loki, the Redeemer, her Redeemer, still fighting against the unjust even here, this strange place that feels so different, so far from the nine realms, and yet so heartbreakingly similar.

And he lets her play in his presence, kind and gentle as she rolls in his aura, lets her feed from his rage, lets her draw comfort from his being, and in this time he tells her tales, stories that would make any skald proud. He, this proud, angry, lonely god, he entertains her, Korrigan, even as he does not remember her, even as he doesn’t understand their true connection, but he honors her, he honors her with his words, with his time, with his being. And for a time, it is enough, it is everything, there is nothing else. She forgets, she forgets the territory she so lovingly crafted from memories lost to all but her, she forgets Frey the coward, she forgets the Oss who hurt her so, she forgets her Creator even, and most of all, for that brief time, with her Redeemer, she forgets Ragnarok. For here, here there is only his pain, only his rage, only his sorrow. And it is enough.

It is enough until she has taken too much, until she has taken too much of his rage, until he has scraped and prodded at his wounds until they no longer hurt above all else, until the stories no longer rouse his deep anger. This is when She comes, She who had abandoned the lonely angry god out of fear, She who comes to reap the rewards of Korrigan’s worship, no longer afeared of Korrigan’s Loki, no longer chased away by everything that Korrigan has coveted so highly from her kin. No, She comes now that Korrigan’s Loki has been suitably tamed, and he is no longer content with the small wisp, as he calls her, no longer content with the spirit who had kept him company for all of his rage, no now he seeks out his oldest friend. And She, She can see what Korrigan is, can be, was, and She, that so called Spirit of Wisdom that he so desires, feels to her as Frey’s cursed sister once did.

So she returns to her area, chased away like a recalcitrant stray, full to bursting with her no longer lonely gods rage, the seething mass of hatred subdued to the aching sorrow of having him stolen away from her. But soon the sorrow passes, the tide of searing rage returning as She warns her, Korrigan, away from Korrigan’s Loki, now Wisdom’s Loki, he is Korrigan’s Loki, and she is incensed by the gall of the so called Spirit of Wisdom daring to tell her, the Korrigan, she who was sixth in all of creation, to stay away from Korrigan’s Loki. 

Time burbles past, leaving Korrigan flittering around her area, boiling, raging, seething at the injustice of it all, her space now unmolested as it grows ever more destructive with the swell of her ire, the truest reflection of Ginnungagap, where not even the wisps fear to tread.

And then, she hears that sweet siren call, and it pulls at her, the golden thread that anchors in her core, tugging her, and she is helpless in the sea of purity of that encompassing emotion. He has awoken, and he finds it as she does, as she had done, as she will do, the world that is unjust, that there is nothing to be redeemed, that the only true way, the only real solution, the only end to it all is hers, the true way, her way.

#### Varric

The first time she met Varric, he called to her from the dark depths of the place that he would teach her to be the Deep Roads. For this is where he is betrayed by his own flesh and blood, the kin he shared a womb with, his brother, and it is as it was for Ymir, that horror of kin betraying kin for naught but greed. He is hard to find, from this place of power, and if he hadn’t had that combination of need for her she would have missed him entirely. His was a subtle draw, that plucks the right notes amidst the cacophony of the others that surround him, rage. His though, is a heady complex blend of betrayal that sings so sweetly to her very core, that guides her to him like Theseus to the Bull.

And the Deep Roads, the Deep Roads are a delight, as it lends its power to hers, the blood of the Titans so reminiscent of her Creator, and there he is, a Nain, one of the Creators people, untainted by the stench of the so called Gods, surrounded in this place, by the blood that had given his race life and meaning. And in this place, this place that she could hear her Creator sing his song, he is a vibrant beacon that lures her, calling to all that she is, and his words are a balm to her soul, for he is a true skald as her Snorri had been before, spinning tales that would live long past his own short life.

And in this place, where songs that have been long forgotten still sing their siren call, he proffers up his rage, his hurt, and she devours it, she delights in it, playing and rejoicing. She whispers in his ear, unseen, the soft words of vengeance, of the long forgotten tales of his creation, of the betrayals that span time and realms, that reverberate through the history of creation. She feeds him with her words, as they stumble through the dark, and she eats at the paltry creatures that would dine on the fleshy bodies that house her Snorri, weakening them before they threaten, so that her Snorri and his men may slay them as easily as they feast on the retribution she does promise. He is now hers, in a way only a few would be able to lay claim to, a special being that will continue to call to her through the years. But here in the dark, where he falters between rage, despair and sorrow, this is where the most special connection he will ever make is forged.

He will find his unseen muse, and her message will be heard in all corners by the time he is finished, a true Snorri, as Loki had proven to be a true Redeemer. 

#### Cadash

The first time she meets Cadash, the female nain is not much bigger than Korrigan had been, Korrigan was, Korrigan is, even without her wings. Her precious wings. But Cadash is young, younger than Korrigan has ever been, younger than the nains had ever been until after the great Betrayal. But there is no mistaking her rage, no mistaking the depth of that anger, the roiling sea of spit that makes her shine, in a way that so few of her kin do in their lacklustre world. Shine she does, pulsating in the dark depths of the roads that lead down to the forgotten Titans slumbering deeply, forgotten by their own creatures.

She is so angry, so betrayed, so full of hate, hostility, that Korrigan can do nothing less but honor her call, seeking her out to play in the emotions offered up so honestly and openly, soaking them up like the roots in the first spring rains. She understands this rage, she knows this rage, this had been hers, it still was hers, when those who had been family had turned, destroying her home, her centre, and for nothing more than their own selfish wants and desires. 

Cadash, the small, young Cadash, who is naught but a child, and yet knows this pain, this anger and embraced it cleanly, fed upon it, survived because of it and not despite. This Cadash, who sang to Korrigan, earnt Korrigan’s guidance and patronage. She guided her away from the molten rivers, from the tainted spawn that stalked the darkened tunnels, away from the bands of betrayer kin who would do nothing but destroy this most precious of kin. She leads her from the blood filled depths, up to the surface, into the arms of the disparate nains who had long since learnt how fickle the underworld purists had become. Korrigan, who invested so deeply in keeping this small shining fleshy avatar of all she had been, would destroy the first and second threat, before Cadash was truly safe to grow into her full potential.

Cadash would continue to call upon her, inviting her to bathe in the searing heat of the rage against an unjust world. Korrigan would miss her the most, for all of her promise to not have favorites amongst her favored. But Cadash, Cadash had earnt it as the small creature who had pulled the fury of Korrigan away from her Creator. She would miss her the most.

#### Cassandra 

When she first crosses paths with Cassandra, it is in the moment that Korrigan fails to obey Frey. Korrigan has grown content in her situation, there is so much rage, so much spite and vengeance in the world that she feeds deep and long, it satiates her, amuses her, and it is everywhere ripe for the plucking. Frey has no power here, no power unless she seeks out the being that will carry the Power across this realm, for he has used up all of his to send her here, and she has given him no quarter since. She has seen it to be so, she has divined it, even as he reaches across his tenuous link that only runs through Korrigan, the Korrigan he sent, that has spent all of the moments growing in strength, and he is no match for her will here. He has lost and she has won. And so she ignores the Power that is danced across her door, and she laughs as he howls in rage.

Korrigan goes as far as to assure the Power remains with the being, as it passes through the realm she shares with others, the Fade as she has learnt its name from the flesh creatures that she feeds upon. Nightmare dares sends it’s minions so close to her domain chasing after that which Frey hungers after, the gluttonous coward. Nightmare, the arrogance of the thing, Nightmare, interfering in her area without a by your leave. She was, she is Korrigan, and she would pay him a visit before this was over, teach him what it was like to challenge that which was and is the Korrigan. A reminder to him of how easily she could squish him like she did his creatures that so invaded this part of the Fade that he had no right to be in. She would show him how it felt to have his limbs pulled out from beneath you, like Frey had done with her precious wings, her sweet precious wings. How she hated Him for stealing them, her wings that were no more, no longer fluttering behind her as they had from the moment she came into being.

In another time, another place Nightmare would have been welcomed to her side, but he had no manners to ask permission, no wits to avoid her, and he dared her power. So she would pluck every limb from his form and thrust it through his bulging core. She would flood his domain with the raging rapids of poison, and lay her curses as he washed away like his smaller kin did once she had finished with them. She would pull his fine hairs from his twitching core and pierce his eyes, making them pop until the last thing he saw was her, and she would yank every fang from that gaping maw before pushing them back in the wrong way up, his last sounds cursing his misfortune for forgetting his manners.

So the being that held the power that was so hotly coveted that Korrigan had been bid to steal, found itself protected by a glowing wisp that stood before the great rip that separated the Fade with the lacking world beyond, and it was pushed out, away from the swarming mass of Nightmare’s own into the arms of the faithful. The glowing wisp like female that knew itself to be Korrigan, dove into the fray, tearing the fearlings that Nightmare had dared to send, devouring them with gay abandon. She relished each death, the howls of that bloated, insolent beast echoing even hear as she drew the destruction out far longer than ever needed to send the message through, she was Korrigan and she would come.

It was here, in these moments that she heard the holy rage of Cassandra, a creature who had in another land, another time would have sent Korrigan into the same raging fits that the so called Spirit of Wisdom did. But in this moment, where Cassandra so closely embodied Korrigans purity, where her world had been torn asunder, her faith challenged and found wanting, her loves slaughter and all that remained was the very being Korrigan had shunted through the great tear, in this moment she sang to Korrigan. And in this moment, with Korrigan riding the crest of destruction, of challenge, of Frey’s rage, Nightmares fear, of the knowledge she had for once and for all secured the destruction of her treacherous kin, Korrigan listened.

For three whole days, Korrigan and Cassandra spiralled around each other, Korrigan dancing through the fade, slaying all that came near to the great tear so she could continue to feed upon the former faithfuls emotions, the tear growing bigger with each passing day. The fear, the rage, the despair, saturating the surroundings making her all but drunk, as her power crackled and spurted. Until the being woke. 

Cassandra proved only to be a passing interest, soon losing the zeal that had first caught Korrigan’s attention as the breach was slowed, Cassandra’s own Faith reappearing with the steady grounding presence of her own kinsmen. And with Faith, came Korrigan’s own disgust, turning away at the first trembling touches.

She would only fleetingly hear the call and ignore from Cassandra again.

#### Cullen

She first heard Cullen back when he was naught but a small child, with a child's anger at the world, his sister the first truly loud cry, but not enough to lure her to him. He had simple hates, not the same complex mix of emotions that Cadash had shown at such an age, shown and had understood. No Cullen was a simple child of simple emotions, knowing not how he was cossetted in the world. 

He would continue to call out with his petty angers as he grew, raging against perceived faults, at his perceptions of the situation he would often find himself in, nothing was ever good enough, he almost reminded her of the traitor kin with his desire for more, never happy. So he called and she ignored, she had better food, more interesting prey to stalk, better than a small young fleshy man who pursued something she hated with almost as much rage as she did Frey and his kin.

She would forget about him even as she continued to check on her special Cadash, until one day where she could ignore him no more. He was too loud, no longer petty grievances, no this was the most vehement hatred, the most direct and overwhelming of emotions that pulled her unwillingly from her battle with a Choice Spirit that had dared to make advances towards her realm. A Spirit who believed itself to be more than she, Korrigan. His anger, his rage pulled her from her, Korrigan’s seat of power, to an area she chose to ignore, on that was tainted with the presence of the powerful flesh bags that liked to infect the Fade around her, encouraging the inane spirits with their awe and babble. 

But there he was, looking so much like one of the gods she almost turned back around to deal with the Choice Spirit. It was his face, his body that oozed with hate and bile, surrounded by demons, Desire demons no less, and she was reminded of that cretin who was trying to poach from her, to intrude on her paradise, that she stayed. She may have ignored this man whilst he was calling to her with his insignificance, but he still had called to her first. He was hers to torment, not theirs. 

The first ignored her, too greedy to pay attention to its surroundings as she grabbed it by its tale and pulled, ripping its spine clean away so it flopped down dead at his feet. The second, reacted too slowly as she wrapped the remains of the first around it’s neck and pulled tight, snapping it clean away. The third tried to plead, but like with the Choice Spirit, she had no patience for it’s false words that dripped with promised betrayal. It had the intelligence to flee as she took a menacing step forward. Leaving her and the one who called, who should have been everything she hated in man, the image of Frey, a glowing bastion of faith. Yet, he burned with the singularity that she did, a depth he had lacked before now there for her to swim in.

He saw her, the first who had looked back into the abyss of rage and fury, he saw her and everything she felt, and for one shining moment they merged, at one, all that he felt she did, and all that she did he became. He was her muse and she nurtured that muse, she fed his hatred, his fears, his rage. She would protect him from threats that would lead him away from her path, from the insanity that was threatened after they sent him away after this imprisonment. She whispered in the ears of his saviours, edging him away from the redemption they could offer, and into her hands so that she could mold him. He worshipped her as the one who truly understood him, who offered acceptance whilst all around him disagreed, who stayed with him as he slept and kept the vile demons at bay.

He was the greatest gift she could have received.

#### The time she did not

She had been gently tending to her patch of the power for all of the moments, chasing, devouring and rending intruders. Jealously guarding her own special place as she crafted the realm into something truly wonderful, that had long since been lost and she had feared would never be seen again. She had long forgotten everything but this beginning, no longer seeing, no longer listening, just quietly tending to her Creator as attentive as the nains that bustled around no bigger than her original form.

There was something she was supposed to have done, she vaguely remembered as power lightly rippled through the realm, but it wasn’t as important as gazing up at her Creator. Gentle tugs at the edge of her lands, vying for her attention were soon dealt with by merely making the borders more inhospitable, for nothing was more important than Him.

This place, this strange realm she had found herself in after all this time of drifting on a sea of fury and rage, it was enough, this was her home. She knew the true meaning of existence, and He was finally here with her.

**Author's Note:**

> A Korrigan is a creature from Breton mythology, she's actually very interesting (well I think so) and can be linked to Welsh Mythology (I mean come on Vicky - they are all very incestuous) and Loki in a tenuous way. Which is how we have Korrigan so firmly ensconced in the Norse Creation story.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Korrigan : Vengeance of Spite Podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20965484) by [GrumpkinVicky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpkinVicky/pseuds/GrumpkinVicky)


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